December 26th is the Boxing Day holiday in Canada. Because I had grown up in the States, I had never heard of Boxing Day, and it took me a while to hear about it even after we moved to Canada, because we usually traveled back to the US over the Christmas break. Boxing Day is also a holiday in Britain and other Commonwealth countries.
When I first heard about it, I assumed it had something to do with the only “boxing” reference I knew: Two guys pounding on each other in a ring, but then learned that it was a day when Britain’s aristocratic rich used to box up gifts to give to their servants for Christmas. Because we weren’t rich and didn’t have any servants to give gifts to, we normally didn’t have any scheduled things to do on the Boxing Day holiday, but we were always happy to have the day off from work.
On Christmas Eve of 1997, we hosted a small get together of friends at our place. Among the people that attended were John Bird and Margaret. John had been a close friend since he and his wife Linda, had moved to an old log home just down the road from us. Later, he and Linda split up, and John and our friend Margaret began their relationship.
John was a creative woodworker and great outdoorsman. I always considered John the healthiest person I knew. He was very careful about what he ate and he always made me feel guilty, because he was always jogging up the road or hiking in the mountains.
There was nothing unusual that happened on that Christmas Eve get together. We ate and we talked. It was a nice event. The following day on Christmas, we all got together again. This time, we joined John and Margaret for a meal up at Margaret’s place. Again, it was just a friendly gathering and nothing extraordinary occurred.
The following day was Boxing Day. My wife and I just had a quiet day to ourselves. It was a Friday, so in the evening we fixed our traditional Friday night pizza. I remember how cozy and comfortable it was in our living room. The Christmas tree lights were glowing and the fire in the wood stove was warm. Then the peace we were enjoying was interrupted by a phone call.
I got up and answered the phone. It was the hospital. They said that John Bird had died and Margaret was there and could we come in to give her some support. We were struck numb with disbelief.
We rushed down to the hospital, and walked quickly down the empty hall to the nurses desk. I happened to glance over, down one of the hallways and notice a little girl hunched over on a bench. When we got to the nurse’s desk, she pointed us over to Margaret, and then I realized that the “little girl” I had seen on the bench, was Margaret. It was like she had shrunken. It was pretty bad. She kept wailing “ I don’t want him to be dead..”
We hugged and cried. I don’t see how we could have offered any comfort to Margaret, we were so distraught and broken up ourselves. It seemed that John, who had been short of breath that morning, had gone cross country skiing to get some fresh air. When he returned home, he was taking a bath, when he started having chest pains. He managed to call Margaret and asked her to take him to the hospital, thinking it was an asthma attack. Margaret rushed over to John’s house, and he walked out and got into her the car.
As Margaret drove him to the hospital, John suddenly grasp his chest and muttered, “Oh shit, oh shit.” He had suffered a massive cardiac event and died on the way to the hospital. He was 51 years old, the same age as his father, when he had died the same way.
As we were trying to comfort Margaret, a nurse came over to us and asked if we wanted to see John. We declined, but then later, Margaret said she wanted to see John again and wanted us to accompany her, so we went into that first room and where John was laid out.
John was still in his hiking pants and jacket. He looked natural except for a green plastic airway vent still in his mouth. Then I noticed that his right eye lid was not totally closed and his eye was dull and lifeless. I think that’s when it really hit me that he was gone.
John had a huge circle of friends, and the news of his death struck everyone the same: shock and disbelief. It fell to me to make one of the most difficult phone calls I have ever had to make. I had to call Linda, John’s ex-wife, who had moved to another small BC town and inform her of John’s death. I hadn’t spoken to Linda for a long time, and when she answered her phone and I identified myself, Linda said, “David”, her voice filled with delight and excitement at receiving an unexpected phone call from an old friend.
After experiencing so much emotional grief myself, Linda’s cheerfulness upon answering the phone, threw me off, and choked me up, but I steadied myself, and I felt it was best just to be direct, so I said as gently as I could, “Linda, listen. John is dead.” It felt like I was crushing someone with a hammer. There was silence at the other end of the phone. I gave Linda a brief explanation of what happened, but the silence remained.
“I can’t talk now, David. I will call you back later”
Those events are the ones that always come flooding into my mind every time I hear a reference to Boxing Day. For most people Boxing Day is the big shopping blowout of the year, a chance for big bargains. The TV news is always full of people lined up for hours waiting for the stores to open their doors so they can go rushing to the bargains.
On Boxing Day, I always think about 1997, and our friend John, who seemed so healthy and vibrant. I think about how precious and fleeting life and friendship are, and how we really should be more appreciate of our friends and celebrate them more than we do.
View my paintings: davidmarchant2.ca
No comments:
Post a Comment